Unraveling
by MrsRen
Summary: Tom Riddle is having an affair...with his adult stepdaughter. It's only supposed to be a fun thing—a fuck her if it isn't—but a trip home for the holidays has Hermione seeing everything in a different light. [TOMIONE.] [SMUT FEST.] [Additional tags/warnings inside, please read.] [ONESHOT.]


**Prompt: Affair**

**Premise: Tom Riddle is having an affair...with his adult stepdaughter. **

**It's only supposed to be a fun thing—a fuck her if it isn't—but a trip home for the holidays has Hermione seeing everything in a different light.**

**This is a kinky story. If you don't want to read Dom/sub dynamics, edging, choking, bondage, and rough, kinky smut, then don't read this. I'm so serious. If you don't like smut, don't read this. **

**Thanks to weestarmeggie for editing. And dreamsofdramione for reassuring me to post. **

* * *

She's already squeezing her legs together, greedily seeking the friction she's only meant to receive from _him_ when the text message pops up on her screen. Holding the wheel with one hand, her lips curve upward as she opens it.

_We can't fuck while you're home, love. _

_Don't you want to fuck me where we can get caught, Daddy? _

It's all kinds of fucked up, this thing they're carrying on. It's far beyond an accident at this point, and Hermione can hardly think of it as such when they keep meeting. It's not as if he'd actually _raised _her.

Thing is, Jean remarried when Hermione was seventeen, on the edge of moving out of their family home anyway, and her husband was—_is—_fifteen years her junior. Honestly, he's closer to Hermione's age than her mother's.

It's not just a way to cope with this secret, to justify her actions. Hermione doesn't particularly care about her mother in this equation, not when she's selfish enough to rake her nails down his back.

Her childhood home is a quaint little brick two-storey. The shutters are freshly painted, a project her mother had taken on during the summer, a garden, one that she tediously tended to when she could, when it wasn't fucking freezing, a cute little fence, with Hermione's initials etched into it somewhere. A two car garage is attached, something Tom had done.

It's a perfect picture of a nice marriage—albeit a little strange considering the age gap—and it's all wrong. Hermione whips into the driveway, smirking as she catches her mother's frown from across the front lawn. Tossing her sunglasses into the passenger seat, Hermione grabbed her bag and slid out of the car.

Arms wrap around her, one finger twisting curl into a tight ringlet that unfurls as its released. "Hermione!" Her mother gushes, pecking her on the cheek. "You got a new car?"

Hermione nods. "Yeah, mine was constantly breaking down." She sighs. "It sucked buying a new car, but I got a raise." The lie rolls off her tongue so easily that she wonders if she's always been able to lie so effortlessly, or if Tom had taught her that. It's likely the latter. "Like it?"

"Oh," Jean breathes. "It's beautiful. Maybe you'll let your old mum take a spin in it?"

_Sure, _Hermione thinks, knowing full well there's not a seat in the car where she hasn't been fucked already. Just like she knows how much it'd break her mother's heart if she learned just who had bought it for her. "Of course, Mum. Whenever you like. Is yours giving you trouble again?"

She waves a hand, tucking a hair behind her ear. It's visible where Jean has tried to cover any semblance of grey. "Oh, you know, whenever it's cold." Wrapping Hermione's hand in hers, she pulls her inside the house, murmuring about the dreadful cold.

Tom lingers in the stairwell, impeccably dressed in a suit that Hermione can't wait to peel off of him later, and his eyes sharpen. As Jean sweeps past both of them, hurrying to answer the phone in the kitchen, Hermione smirks.

Before he can say anything, or remind her that she's meant to be good while she's home, Hermione slides her arms around his middle. "Hello, Daddy." She murmurs, her voice hoarse. Pecking him innocently on the cheek, his fingers tighten on her hip. Once she's sure her mother is occupied, she turns her face quickly and captures his lips.

Her back hits the wall, the sharp edge of the trim meeting her spine as his hand closes around her throat. "What do you think you're doing?" Tom hisses, and his voice is soft, but gone are the days where she thinks it's a sign he'll let up.

Jean's in the next room none the wiser as she carries on a conversation about what dessert would be best for the dinner she's hosting the next night.

Hermione lifts her chin, and hooks her ankle around the back of his knee. "Whatever I want, I suspect."

"Bratty little slut," he growls, teeth skimming her throat as he dips his head. "She'll leave for dinner with friends in an hour." Tom's tone leaves no room for arguments, which is a shame since it's the quickest way to rile him up.

* * *

Her hips ache, and her arse stings as she smooths down the back of her dress. Pretty, and festive in the colour red, Hermione swallows before hurrying downstairs. The house is already littered with people, several of them she does know, but there are so many faces she doesn't recognise at all. Hesitating at the bottom of the stairs, Hermione laces her fingers together in front of her.

An arm curves around her middle, and Tom steers her toward the kitchen. "Your mother was looking for you a few minutes ago." He murmurs.

She nods, wincing as he accidently brushes her arse. It's a miniscule, accidental touch and it goes unnoticed. Who would suspect that it had been purposeful? He's her step-father after all.

A smug smirk settles on his face, and more than anything, she wants to knock it off. From the looks of it, he knows it too. "Are you alright?"

"No," Hermione replies, lowering her voice while looking around them. "A paddle, Tom? Seriously?"

He shrugs, and his tongue darts out to slide along the seam of his lips. "Don't act like a brat, and I won't have to punish you."

That's the thing.

"I like being punished." She whispers, not daring to meet his eyes. This is a bad conversation to have, and an even worse place to have it. "But you already know that, don't you?" Hermione follows his lead into the kitchen, and leans against the counter—Jesus fucking Christ, there's not a single place in the house he hasn't fucked her—as he pours her a glass of wine.

There's no one around to hear him say, "Don't get drunk, sweetheart."

Hermione isn't sure what to say, not with as many close calls as they've had since she's been home. Him fucking her in the bed he—_sometimes_—shares with her mother. Her face pressed to the mattress while her hair was wrapped around his knuckles, which were clenched in a tight fist. In his study two nights earlier after she'd teased him by wearing a plug, and _accidentally_ flashing her arse while no one else was looking. He'd removed the plug and bent her over, filling her arse all while rubbing her clit.

Heat pools in her stomach.

"You like me drunk." Hermione utters quietly. "We have more fun when we're both pissed." The glass is cool against her fingers. She doesn't breathe another word, not even to tease, before leaving the room. She knows if she _does _look back, Tom will be staring after her.

And she'll go back to him.

She just needs to breathe, to get her thoughts together, and it'll be alright then.

* * *

Breathing doesn't help. The emotions coupling in the pit of her stomach are _terrifying_, and she's done well enough to not consider them at all thus far. But as she's spent the past few days at home, watching her mother press a kiss to Tom's cheek each morning, to hear her whisper to Tom, to see them together—even thought right now they were only sitting beside each other—it makes Hermione nauseous.

Seated to her left is Tom, and to his is her mother.

Jean's fingers thread through Tom's and he runs his thumb over her knuckles, earning a smile.

It's fine as long as it's just sex. Granted, there's quite a bit of possessiveness on both sides, but as long as there are no real feelings, it's fine. Hermione's never stopped to consider that she's in a lot deeper than she should be. That doesn't matter; they're a good fit physically. Steeling herself, and biting the inside of her cheek, a burst of spitefulness wells up.

Lights twinkle around the room, and the candles dotting down the middle of the pretty tablecloth her mother laid out flicker. Hermione reaches for her fork and chews quietly, averting her gaze from the man beside her.

Still, she sees his lips curve into a smirk from the corner of her eye, and knows nothing _good _can come of it. Tom's hand sneaks onto her thigh, the pads of his fingers painting lines against her skin.

A low chuckle escapes him as she drops her fork, and the clatter sounds through the room, drawing the attention of their entire extended family. "Careful, sweetheart," Tom says.

Her mother shoots a glare at her from the other side of her husband. "Hermione, be careful! This is our best china." There's an edge to her voice, and an odd twitch at the corner of her mother's mouth.

It's all it takes for her anger to snap, and nails cut crescent shaped lines into the creamy skin of her thigh before she says something she probably won't regret.

Hermione doesn't give a fuck about the china, and it's all she can do to prevent herself from saying Tom had fucked her senseless over this same table hours earlier, two fingers pumping into her arse while his cock stretched her cunt.

Fingers tighten on her thigh as a warning, and when she plasters a fake smile on her face, they dip lower.

Her mother returns to nursing a glass of white wine, but Hermione can't hear the conversation that's taken over the table. It doesn't matter. It's likely only gossip anyway.

Tom pushes her knickers to the side, finding her already soaked from earlier in the afternoon. His nostrils flare, and she wishes, she _wishes_, that he would deposit her into his lap. Let her sink down on his cock like a good girl, that he'd praise her while anyone could see. As much as she's panicked, the want to mark him as _hers_ is the only thought going through her mind.

Two fingers enter her, curling against her and she swallows a gasp. Minutes pass just like that, with her tightly gripping the edge of her chair while half praying no one would notice, and half praying they _would. _

Jean taps her glass, a faint _cling _drawing the attention of the room. Hermione barely hears her say that she'd like to hear what everyone is thankful for this holiday season.

She certainly doesn't hear what everyone is thankful for.

"Hermione?" Tom asks, his tone traitorously unaffected as his thumb rubs her clit roughly, just the way she likes it. "Your mother asked you a question."

Everyone is watching her, and they think they know her, but they don't. Prim and proper, and a good girl, they think. While under the table she's being fingered by her step father and she's going to come in front of everyone. She swallows, and nothing about the coy smile she gives is fake.

"I'm thankful to have Tom to show me what a husband should truly act like. It's important to have strong role models, don't you agree?" Faint agreements follow, but she's focused on Tom.

On the way his eyes narrow dangerously and his fingers quicken. On the way he slides another into her while he brings her to the edge. Normally, Tom would edge her until she begged, until she cried for it, but not this time.

His hand leaves her aching, and she squeezes her legs shut as he sucks his fingers clean. No one notices. "Hermione?" He asks darkly. "Would you help me in the kitchen?"

She raises from her chair, legs weak, and juices from her cunt threatening to run down her legs.

* * *

There's a still all too familiar ache between her legs when she drags herself from her bed the next morning. A glance out the window tells her that her mother has already left for the day, and she knows even without bounding downstairs that there's a note stuck to the fridge. Something whimsical and loving, something for Tom, something for her daughter.

As if Tom hadn't slipped out of their marital bed last night, snuck down the hall, and slid into a bed that he shouldn't have been in. The memory is fresh, and Hermione swears she can still feel fingers closing around her throat. With her legs over his shoulders as he drove impossibly deeper into her, and gagged her with the pretty lace knickers he'd bought for her.

Hermione pads downstairs, not bothering with her pajama bottoms, still discarded in the floor. She wears only a pair of cotton knickers that are likely to push all of his buttons as she feigns innocence. Her shirt is long, one of his actually, and she knows it's not worth the risk of her mother finding it.

Tom sits at the table, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose as he reads the morning paper. There's a crinkle as he lowers it, peering at her over the edge. "That doesn't belong to you."

"Mmm," she muses, snatching a strawberry from the bowl left on the counter. They're her favorite, and she dips it in cream before sucking it off as she turns to face him. "I like it. I think it suits me more than it does you, don't you agree?"

As her tongue darts out to lick a stripe through the cream, his eyes narrow. "You've clearly not learned your lesson."

"Going to teach me another?" A squeak escapes her as he stands too quickly and he grabs her by her elbow, steering her toward the stairwell. "Tom? When is she coming back?"

He doesn't answer. He only smirks.

"Tom?"

He leads her into his study, and flips the lock into place behind them. "Sit on the couch, love." Lips skim her throat, trailing to the shell of her ear, and Hermione shivers.

She knows this room intimately.

How the leather feels when it sticks to her skin.

How the carpet leaves burns against her back.

How the edge of his desk digs into her thighs as he slams into her, hands held behind her back.

Hermione sits on the edge of the sofa, crossing her legs at the ankle while she watches him.

Tom unlocks the bottom right drawer, pulling a box from it. Even without him saying anything, she knows that whatever is in that box, it's another sex toy. "I had meant to give this to you after Christmas when I visited your flat, but since you insist on defying me every chance you get…" He takes three long strides across the room, and desire pools in her belly. "I think I'll remind you who is in charge."

Her mouth is dry as she swallows. "Mum could come home any minute."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Well, you'll have to be quiet, or I won't touch you for the rest of the time you're here. Do you understand, Hermione?"

God, the fucking thought alone is criminal. So she nods, her teeth digging into her bottom lip as she does. "What are you going to do to me?"

Ripping open the box, Hermione recognises the spreader bar, and then a second one—one for her legs, one for her wrists—and she knows that she absolutely doesn't stand a fucking chance against what this man does to her. "Daddy." She whimpers.

"Tell me your safeword." Tom asks as he kneels between her legs.

"Red."

"Good girl," he praises. "I think you'll like this. You asked for it, after all, but—" Tom adjusts her, pulling her to where's she's rested against the cushions. "Comfortable? You'll be here for a while."

Her eyes widen. "How long?"

His hand comes down hard against her cunt, eliciting a long moan from her. His fingers massage her sensitive clit as he clenches his jaw. "You're not the one asking questions here. Now, answer me."

"I'm fine." Hermione shivers as he drags his finger down her cloth covered slit. "Fuck, what are you _doing _to me?" The question hangs in the air as he adjusts her.

"Whatever I want." Tom presses her legs up, holding them over her head as he locks the restraints around her ankles, and then the other around her wrists. A thin metal piece connects the two, keeping her limbs held back.

A slow burn starts.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck. _

Tom produces another box, and the picture on the outside of it causes her to gasp. "You did mention you wanted another for Christmas. Happy Christmas. Of course you spoiled it like the bratty, little slut you are, but that's no matter."

She had asked for another vibrator for the holiday. Hers had certainly seen better days, and Hermione hadn't hesitated when mentioned the hitachi wand and how nice it would be to be tied up and—

"You're going to leave me here?" She whispers.

He nods. "I am. I'm going to truss you up like a perfect little whore before I go downstairs and eat lunch with your mother."

Glaring at him, she has little choice in the matter but to stay still as he pulls a thin rope from the box as well. He's clearly prepared for this moment, and she's more disappointed than she's going to admit that he won't be here to watch her writhe on the sofa. Tom ties it to her leg, taking his time in strapping it against her, and leaves the head of the vibrator against her clit.

"I was going to watch you," he breathes, and brushes hair from her face. "You weren't meant to come while I edged you, but plans have changed. It's on an interval, love. While I'm downstairs, all I'll be thinking of is how you're coming all over yourself, over and over again." He pinches her nipple through her top.

"You could stay."

Her words go unnoticed. "Soaking yourself through your knickers—" Tom presses the button, and the door slams shut downstairs. "Oh, there she is. Remember, if you're not quiet…"

Hermione swallows. "Yes, Daddy."

Tom doesn't lock the door when he leaves.

* * *

Out of all of the things they do, this must be her favorite. Typically Tom is with her, of course, controlling the speed of the vibrator while she twists in her binds. He edges her nearly every time they fuck, at least once even if it's only for ten minutes, but he makes her beg.

Hermione loves to be reduced to a mindless state, made to beg, free to be as fucking filthy as she wants because she feels safe with him.

But he's not here.

Hermione pulls against the restraints just to feel the dull metal edge bite into her skin. The speed increases, and she bites the inside of her cheek. _It's fine. I won't come once, and then I'll be the smug one. _The thought is abandoned nearly as soon as it enters her mind because the speed increases _again_.

His laugh sounds through the house.

Wiggling in the binds only causes friction, and it pushes her right over the edge.

Once, and then twice, and then so many times she loses count.

* * *

She's soaked when he returns. A whimpering mess, her voice low as she tries to keep quiet, and her lip is raw from where she's bitten it so many times. When the door cracks open, she doesn't know that it's Tom.

It's unsurprising to her that she's not scared of her mother finding her. Hermione wishes Tom would do just that—_just fetch something from my study, darling—_and this would be done. He'd be hers, all fucking hers and—

Hermione shakes her head, forcing the thought away as he crouches beside her. "Look how pretty you are," he murmurs, twisting a strand of hair around his finger. "I can see that you're positively dripping even through your knickers. Let's get those off of you."

Hermione twists in her binds, and a delicious burn rubs against her skin. A whimper falls away from her as she shakes her head, strands of her hair sticking to her face.

He chuckles darkly. "Oh, I'm not going to untie you."

She relaxes.

She recognises the sound of the small knife he always carries clicking open, and the dull side of the blade is cool against her skin as it dips beneath her knickers, and he cuts them off of her. "Daddy." She murmurs, her head falling back as the speed quickens, and Hermione's at the edge before she can think.

His eyes are dark as he watches her, his fingers cold as they slide into her slick cunt, and they curl inside of her, fucking her though another orgasm. "How many times, Hermione?"

She can't breathe.

Tom asks again as he tugs his belt from his trousers and he pulls his cock out, the thick length already hard in his grip.

"Twelve," Hermione whimpers. She's kept count. She's a good girl who knows he'll ask. He always wants to know just what he's done to her, wants to hear her say it. "I couldn't stop myself."

The sofa dips beneath his weight, and he rests in the cradle of her thighs, and Tom watches closely as she trembles. "Your mother left." He whispers, and hot puffs of air tickle her ear. "She'll be gone for another few hours."

There's just enough time to register his words before he slams into her easily, and he presses the head of the vibrator down with the heel of his palm.

"Daddy, Daddy, Daddy—" Hermione pants, squeezing her eyes shut as he fucks her with brutal strokes, stretching her cunt around him. "Fuck!"

"Look at you," Unadulterated praise drips from his lips. "All tied up and soaked, ready to be fucking _used._" His hips snap forward and Hermione does all she can to grind against him, despite the spreader bar. "Is this what you wanted?"

Hermione nods, her voice trapped in her throat. She's close, and from the way he starts to slide into her even harder—on the edge of passing out—Tom knows it. "Daddy, I'm—I'm gonna—"

"Are you?" He growls, pinching her nipple while biting the other. Tom grabs his belt, gaze dropping to her throat as her eyes widen.

Hermione blurts, "Green. So fucking green."

It takes a second for him to wrap the belt around her throat, and slide it through the fastener. The metal meets her skin, and he pulls it tight around her neck, careful not to pull any harder than he should.

It pushes her right over the edge. This is supposed to be fucking, nothing more. And she knows it isn't, and Hermione gets the sense that he's not this careful with anyone else, certainly not his _wife. _

She gasps that she's coming, and the belt tightens as he leans close. Tom's lips slant against hers, cutting off the only way she _can _breathe.

And she doesn't want it any other way as she screams and comes apart as he fills her.

* * *

On Christmas Eve, the day that her mother is the busiest, she and Tom sneak out of the house to do last minute shopping. Hermione's mostly quiet, unable to keep her thoughts silenced, and if Tom thinks it's odd—and he does; she sees the way he chances worried looks at her—he doesn't question her.

The second they're home, and her mum's car is gone, Tom presses her to the kitchen island. He kisses her roughly, fingers dug into her wild curls and his nails scrape her scalp. Turning her around, Tom bends her over the island, and rips her leggings down, and his hands comes down hard on her arse. "You're not wearing knickers."

"I don't like the lines." Hermione bites out, but pushes her arse back toward him. She's looking forward to the snarky reply he'll undoubtedly give her, but her mobile rings. It vibrates against the tile counter, and she groans.

"Answer your mother, Hermione," Tom orders, and the sound of him unzipping his jeans follows. "Be sure not to give us away, or she'll rush home to find me buried in your cunt."

Traitorous words that'll give away just what she's thinking are on the tip of her tongue.

"Hello?" Hermione answers, clapping a hand over her mouth as he thrusts into her, burying himself before slowly pulling out. "Mum?"

Tom doesn't play nice, and he certainly doesn't play fair as he slams into her, pressing her cheek to the counter roughly.

"Hermione!" Her mother greets cheerfully, unaware of what's happening on the other end of the line.

His fingers slide along her folds before pressing against her arsehole, and she stuffs the sleeve of her jacket into her mouth to hide a muffled whimper.

Her mother continues. "Well, do you remember how you told me you didn't have a boyfriend?"

"I'm going to fuck your arse later." Tom whispers, covering the speaker of her phone. "I'm going to hold your face to the floor while I stretch you open with my cock."

When he releases her mobile, Hermione only catches the last half of what her mum says. "—go to uni together."

"I'm sorry, Mum." Hermione says, breathless. "What was that?"

There's a heavy sigh. "You told me you didn't have a boyfriend, do you remember?"

"I don't have a boyfriend." Hermione confirms, and Tom's movement slow. "What about it?"

"I gave your mobile to a nice young man I met today. I work with his father. Surely you remember Draco? Lucius says he's enamoured with you."

Of course she knows Draco Malfoy. Blond, a foot taller than her, not at all unattractive, but he's not—

Hermione sucks in a breath. "Oh, yes, I know him. Well, if he calls, I'll be sure to answer." What the fuck else is she to say?

Her mother claps, a cheesy little moment that is utterly her, and disconnects the call.

Tom rips her leggings back into place. "You're mine." He says, gripping her chin and tilting it up. "Only fucking mine."

Hermione scoffs, shaking her head.

His eyes widen, and surprise is a good look on him. Satisfying to her since it's never happened, at least not in a way that reveals his anger so plainly at the same time. "What?"

She pushes him away from her, pulling out of his hold. "You know exactly what. It's a bit of fun for you, but you think I'm yours in terms of possession, not because… nevermind." Hermione sighs. "This was always fun for both of us, and I agreed to all of it, but it's not—I'm not—I'm—"

The shrill ringtone saves her from blurting something she's better off not saying, and he tries to reject the call.

Hermione's lips curve into a smirk that rivals his. "That's probably Draco, Daddy. I should take this." She leaves him without another word, and pretends it doesn't hurt when he doesn't follow.

* * *

In the middle of the night, Hermione packs her things and leaves a note saying hardly anything at all. There's no mistaking the fact that she's in love with Tom, her stepfather, the same man her mother is in love with, and she's unable to wrap her thoughts around how fucked up it is.

The night she leaves, Hermione makes the decision to leave based on the fact that Tom stumbles into her bedroom in a drunken stupor.

She knows that her mother will find him asleep in her bed if he's so unlucky, and that it will raise questions, but Hermione doesn't stick around for the fallout.

A text the next morning reveals that he hadn't been discovered since her mum wishes her a happy holiday and tells her she loves her.

Tom doesn't contact her once.

It's New Years, and she's sloshed while holed up alone in her flat when there's a knock on the door that won't stop, no matter how many times she screams to go away.

With a bottle of wine in her hand, uncorked with no glass, Hermione throws the door open, a witty insult on the tip of her tongue. However, her mouth dries as she stares at him.

It's pouring rain. It's like every ridiculous romcom she's ever seen where the man comes to apologise to the heroine in a torrential downpour.

But this isn't a proposal, and Tom Riddle isn't Mr Darcy.

"What the fuck do you want?"

He visibly swallows. "I asked for a divorce."

Even though she suspects she might regret it, that it might hurt her, Hermione steps aside and motions him in.


End file.
